


Bid Our Hold On Happiness

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently there's a wolf in the area. </p><p>Everyone's seen it, and everyone knows that it's under a curse.</p><p>And everyone knows that if it's under a curse, it's bound to show up at Clarke's doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bid Our Hold On Happiness

**Author's Note:**

> title from Lofticries by Purity Ring
> 
> this is loosely based on a movie I saw years and years ago and don't remember anything about, other than it had Meg Ryan and some other guy as star-crossed lovers, who were cursed to be a wolf by night and a hawk by day, respectively
> 
> edit: the movie is Ladyhawke, and Meg Ryan is not in it.

Clarke hears about the wolf long before she sees him.

“Apparently there’s always a girl with it,” Jasper tells her—and he’s not the first to mention the wolf, but he’s certainly the most enthusiastic about it. She’s not really sure why; you’d think living so close to an enchanted forest would temper him to this sort of thing, but then, Jasper’s always the most enthusiastic when it comes to magic, alchemist or no. “I think they’re star-crossed lovers or something.”

“Could be,” Clarke muses, and it’s not very often she agrees with Jasper, but in these neck of the woods, really anything goes. “If they are, and it’s a spell or something, it figures they’d show up here eventually. These trees soak up magic like a sponge.”

“They’re bound to end up at your door sooner or later you know,” Jasper says, waggling his eyebrows for added effect, and Clarke shoves him. But it’s not as if he’s _wrong._

“I thought you came for powdered bismuth,” Clarke accuses. “Not to gossip.”

“What, I can’t do both?” Jasper reaches up to play with the dried hyssop she’s strung up from the rafters, and Clarke swats at his hand. “I can multi-task, Clarke.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” she shoots, tying up his order in a cloth pouch, and steering him out the door. She does _like_ Jasper, but if she doesn’t keep him on his toes, she knows he’ll never leave.

“Let me know when the wolf shows up,” he calls back, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder, nearly knocking the goggles from their perch on his head.

That isn’t the last that Clarke hears of the mysterious wolf and its girl—it seems everyone from the nearby village has something to say about it, and they’re all equally convinced that if anyone’s going to actually meet the creature, it’ll be Clarke. They find all sorts of reasons to stop by her cottage throughout the day, and while it grates on her nerves a little, the constant stream of theories that are just half-baked at best, business is doing twice as well as it normally is, and so she can’t complain too much.

And besides, she knows they’re right, in a way; if anyone is going to come face to face with some enchanted animal, it’s bound to be her. The same way the trees all around her attract magic and magic things, Clarke attracts enchantments. It’s how she got her job in the first place; she woke up one morning to find a man-turned-rabbit on her doorstep, with no idea how he got there. Having grown up as an enchanted princess living in a magical wood, Clarke had picked up a few things, and was able to help him.

But apparently the man-turned-rabbit-turned-man-again was a bit of a blabbermouth, and it wasn’t long before nearby villagers knew there was a witch in the woods who was willing to work and unwork spells for the right price.

It’s no secret, too, that Clarke’s some sort of princess, and she’s had more than her fair share of knights, heroes and princes stop by to see if she matches the damsel they’re supposed to be rescuing. So far none of them have, and Clarke’s no closer to finding out where she comes from, or how she ended up in a witch’s cottage when she was just a little girl. At this point, she’s pretty much come to terms with never knowing.

She doesn’t mind so much, most of the time. She likes her job, and her home, and her customers. She’ll go into the village sometimes when she has a slow day, and visit Jasper, the alchemist, or Monty the botanist, or Lincoln the woodworker, or Raven the smith. Clarke is, if not one hundred percent happy, then at least satisfied with her life.

That’s what she says when Lincoln falls into the seat beside her at the tavern. It’s Monty’s birthday, and everybody loves Monty, so the whole village has taken the afternoon to celebrate—although by now it’s well into the evening, and the sun is beginning to set.

“You don’t look happy,” Lincoln says, nudging her arm a little. Lincoln is the sort of drunkenly tactile that Clarke wishes she could be; casually affectionate, slinging his arm around the shoulders of his friends and ruffling their hair and kissing their cheeks at random. Sober he’s a bit more reserved, but still gives the best hugs.

Lincoln is the only other outsider, like Clarke. He came wandering into the village nearly ten years before, when she was still fairly young and new to the area. No one knows where he’s from, as far as she’s aware, and they don’t particularly seem to want to find out. Lincoln hasn’t offered the information, and so they won’t press him for it.

It’s made it a bit easier for Clarke to trust him, strange as that may be. Clarke’s always had a fondness for mysteries. They remind her she’s not alone.

“I am,” she argues, sipping the burning cider that Monty makes especially for her. Everyone else is satisfied with just regular old barley moonshine, but Clarke likes her drink to taste like the woods.

Lincoln studies her a little, but not like he’s trying to prove her wrong. Like he’s trying to make sure. He’s checking up on her, and she feels a warm spark of fondness for him, and lays her head down on his shoulder. It isn’t the best pillow—too broad and hard with muscle—but it’ll do.

“Really,” she says, yawning just a little, and Lincoln puts her cider back on the bar so she won’t drop the cup. Somehow she’s gotten tired without even noticing, and she still has the long walk home.

“I’ll walk you,” Lincoln offers as she stands, but Clarke just shakes her head.

“It’s too dangerous in the woods after dark,” she tells him, firm, leaving no room for argument, but Lincoln doesn’t look convinced.

“But not for you?”

Clarke shrugs. “They recognize me.” She tugs her hood up over head, wishes one last happy birthday to Monty, who’s grinning and swaying on his own barstool off to the side, and starts off.

Everyone knows you’re not supposed to walk in the woods at night, but truthfully, this is Clarke’s favorite hour. The rich purple sky turning everything to tinted shadow, including Clarke. She fits in among the trees and the moss and the quiet things that others fear. She’s never been afraid here; it’s her home. The forest knows her.

They sky opens up when she’s halfway out, monstrous clouds splitting open like a gate to let the water rush through in a downpour, and even as Clarke clutches her cloak all around her, she’s soaked through within second, hair and clothes plastered to her slick skin.

It’s dark enough that she can barely see once she reaches her cottage, and shoulders the heavy wooden door open with watery breaths. She never locks the place up, both because she can never be bothered to and because she’s never had much cause. Nobody comes out this way unless they’re looking for her, and everyone knows better than to walk into a witch’s home uninvited.

Or, at least she’d thought so.

But the moment Clarke steps into the front room, the door is being slammed shut and there’s a knife at her throat, causing a shallow sting where it slices thinly through her skin.

“Move and you’re dead,” a girl snarls, and Clarke can just make her out from the corner of her eye—wet tangles of long dark hair and pale, pale skin that nearly glows in the moonlight leaking through the window. She isn’t wearing any clothes.

Clarke swallows, biting back a wince when the bobbing of her throat widens the cut. “Who are you?”

The girl hisses and presses the knife closer, a threat. “No questions,” she says, fierce, and then jerks her head over towards the corner of the kitchen. “Help him.”

Clarke manages to just barely twist her head so she can follow the girl’s sightline, and nearly misses him altogether—but a flash of lightning floods the room with silver, and Clarke lets out a gasp.

There’s a wolf lying on her kitchen floor, with an arrow sticking out of him. He’s bleeding to death on her floorboards.

“If he dies, you die,” the girl adds, as extra incentive, and gives Clarke a shove forward, though she keeps the knife upright, just in case. “Give me your cloak.”

It takes Clarke a few minutes to peel the cloak from her skin, and then she tosses it back at the girl in a wet, dripping clump. The girl doesn’t seem to notice how soaked through it is, or else she doesn’t care, simply sliding it on and tying the rope belt loosely around her hips. She points at Clarke with the knife, catching the moonlight on metal and shimmering. She nudges it hastily towards the wolf.

“Get to it, witch,” she says, and Clarke grimaces a bit before crossing over towards the animal.

She kneels down on the floor beside it and reaches a hand out towards its fur, placing her palm on its side, gently. It jerks under her touch, and she feels a low growl starting deep in its throat. Clarke strokes it a little, like she would a dog, unsure what else to do. She really doesn’t want to be bitten by a wolf or stabbed, tonight.

There’s another clap of thunder that rolls over the cottage, and the wolf lets out a pitiful whine. Clarke’s heart lurches at the sound, in spite of herself. She can feel the magic wrapped up in its bones, but she can’t unravel it yet—first she needs to stop the bleeding.

“The comfrey is in a jar on the top shelf,” she calls back to the girl. “Fetch it for me.”

“Get it yourself,” the girl snarls, and Clarke turns to give her her most unimpressed look.

“Would you actually let me?”

The girl hesitates for a moment, thinking it over, before she makes a face and crosses over towards the wooden cupboard with the glass inlay, reaching in for the jar of green leaves.

“Now I need my pestle,” Clarke says, taking the jar, and the girl scowls.

“What do you need that for?”

“Look, do you want to save your friend or not?” Clarke snaps, and the girl mutters something dark in a language she can’t understand, but she gets her the pestle and bowl.

That’s how the night goes. It’s a rush of herbs and thunder as Clarke crushes the comfrey down into a paste and slathers it around the wound. She has to take the arrow out with both hands, and has the girl hold down the wolf as it howls and writhes at the pain. Clarke wraps its gash in her own enchanted bandages that never bleed through, and sits back on the balls of her feet with a tired sigh.

“That’s the best it’s going to get tonight,” she says, and the girl looks ready to fight her, but Clarke is too exhausted for that and she holds up a hand. “I can’t do any more. It’s up to him, now, to last through the night.” Not that there is much night left, Clarke realizes, frowning at the sky through the window. It’s dusted a pale pink around the edges, just hours before dawn.

The girl seems to bite back on her own arguments, and nods, a jerky movement of her head, before curling up beside the wolf, as close as she can without touching it and dislodging its wounds. She seems to have forgotten she’s supposed to be threatening Clarke, and the knife sits on its own a few feet away.

Clarke retires to her bedroom, too tired to do more than strip off her still-damp dress and collapse naked on the mattress. She’ll figure out the next step in the morning, when she can actually keep her eyes open.

Clarke wakes to the feel of sunlight on her skin, streaming in through the window above her bed. She takes a moment to seriously contemplate walking out of the room naked, because she doesn’t feel like putting in the effort of getting dressed, and after all the girl seemed to have no issues with nudity.

Honestly if she hadn’t put a knife to Clarke’s throat, Clarke might consider asking her out on a date. She was very lovely, in a wild sort of way, which is right up Clarke’s alley.

But as it is, she drags on one of her plainest smocks, because she isn’t sure how much blood might get on her if she has to check the wolf’s wounds.

Except, when she steps out into the main area of the cottage, she finds the girl and the wolf missing, and there’s a man on her rug.

He’s lying naked, close to the fireplace, which someone must have lit during the night, and there’s a bandage wrapped around the flesh of his stomach, and Clarke knows even without checking to see if they’re _her_ bandages—he’s the wolf.

Clarke isn’t sure what it is about men that seem so much more predatory. By all rights, the sleeping naked man on her carpet should be far less intimidating than the woman who held a knife to her throat, but that isn’t how it works, and so Clarke goes and fetches her wood-splitting axe from out back, just in case, before nudging the man’s ass with her toe.

The man groans, low and pathetic, and rolls over before blinking blearily up at her. If he’s surprised to see her, he makes no sign of it, though his eyes do stay on the axe for longer than completely necessary.

“Morning,” he says, voice hoarse, and stretches, not at all self-conscious. Clarke just shoots him a raised brow, which makes him grin.

His teeth gleam white and sharper than she’s sure is natural. He really is very wolf-like, even in the skin of a man.

Then he turns his head this way and that, trying to take in what he can without sitting up. “Where’s my s—the girl, that was with me? Where is she?”

Clarke shrugs. “She was gone when I woke up. Tea?” She adds, because she’s already going for the kettle, so she might as well offer. The man looks a bit thrown off, which she only feels a little smug about.

“Do you have black?” he asks, finally, and Clarke smirks without really meaning to.

It’s just—this is obviously a witch’s cottage, and she is obviously a witch. Everyone knows that witches collect teas.

“I have everything,” she says haughtily, and it’s even true. The man makes a face at her, before getting up.

Clarke starts to seep the tea leaves as the man moves about, studying the books on her shelves and the craftwork of her furniture and the herbs she’s strung up to dry throughout the place. He either doesn’t notice he’s still naked or he’s used to it and doesn’t care.

Either way it’s distracting, and finally Clarke blurts out “Look, could you cover up with something, please?”

The man turns, looking startled, and then positively _leers_. “What’s the matter, princess?” he asks, and Clarke freezes, spine going tense. “Like what you see?”

“Just—use the afghan, or something,” she mutters, mind still caught on what it is he’d called her. _Princess_. It’s obvious that Clarke’s a witch; she’s never tried to hide it. But that she’s a princess?

“Better?” the man asks and she glances over to see he’s taken her worn blanket and tied it around his waist with a loose knot, hung low on his hips so the hem drags along the floor behind him.

“I suppose,” Clarke says, dry, and the kettle starts to whistle.

She fetches the pot of wildflower honey harvested from her own bees, and spoons it into two cups, even as the man wrinkles his nose at her.

“I don’t like honey,” he frowns, like a petulant child, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“You’ll like this kind,” she tells him, and sets the tea down on the counter, daring him to argue.

It shouldn’t feel familiar, all things considered. She’s never met him before, and he showed up in her home in the middle of the night, as a badly injured wolf—before waking up on her floor as a naked man. Really, it should feel strange, drinking tea with him in her kitchen. Or at the very least, it should feel dangerous.

After all, she doesn’t know him, and his companion sliced her skin with a knife. All the known facts point to the couple being trouble, which is something Clarke makes a point to avoid.

But—there’s a mystery there, set deep in his bones, and the girls’ too from what Clarke could make out. And he called her _princess_.

She should probably be subtle about it. Discreet. Clarke is good at that, good at manipulating a conversation, to get what she wants from it. But she also doesn’t know how much time she has, and she’s not sure where the girl is or if she’ll come back. She’s not sure of much of anything about the situation, and Clarke has never been very good with patience.

She decides to start out small. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Wolf?” she asks, and the man snorts into his tea.

“Bellamy,” he says, “Although _Wolf_ does have a certain ring to it. What about you? Witch? Princess?”

“Clarke, if you don’t mind.” She hesitates and wets her lips—it’s now or never. She doesn’t have the time to be sneaky about it. “Why do you think I’m a princess?”

Bellamy frowns. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it? In the village. You’re the enchanted princess, who works as a witch in the woods.”

Ah, so they’d gotten to Jasper. Clarke really should have known.

Her disappointment must show. “You thought we knew something about your enchantment,” Bellamy guesses, and Clarke shrugs a little ruefully.

“That seems to be how it works,” she says, because there’s no point in _not_ discussing it. He’ll probably forget it all by tomorrow, anyway. Her spell is one of the best. “No one knows anything about it, or if they do, they don’t remember it when I ask. All I know is I’m some sort of princess, from somewhere. Everything else is just—gone.”

Bellamy studies her. “That must be hard. To be a princess without a kingdom.” There’s a bit of an edge to the words, which makes Clarke bristle.

“It’s not—I don’t care about the actual crown or anything. I just wish I knew who I _was_ or where I’m _from_ or— _anything_.”

“Yeah,” he says, softer. “I can understand that.” He tips his cup up to drain it, and Clarke can’t help gloating a little.

“I told you you’d like this honey,” she says, and he rolls his eyes at her.

They’re still chatting—about her bees now, because Bellamy refuses to believe that honeybees are hornets are _not_ the same things—when there’s a knock at her window.

“Ah,” Bellamy says with a grin, “She’s back,” and hops up to round the counter and open the window, where an enormous bird—a falcon, Clarke’s pretty sure—is perched.

The moment the window’s open, the bird rushes in, circling the room once before landing on Bellamy’s shoulder, talons digging into his skin though he doesn’t wince. It gives Clarke a sharp look, before _nuzzling_ against his cheek, as Bellamy reaches up to pet its feathers.

“This is Octavia,” he tells Clarke. “You met her last night.”

“The girl with the knife,” Clarke says, and he laughs while the bird looks sort of smug about it.

“Yeah, that’s her. Don’t worry though, she’s harmless really.”

Octavia immediately nips at his ear, drawing blood and making him wince.

“You sure about that?” Clarke asks, dry, and Bellamy shrugs the shoulder currently not supporting his bird.

“I deserved that. Octavia, this is Clarke. Play nicely.”

Clarke doesn’t know much about falcons, or birds in general, but she’s fairly sure Octavia is glaring at her.

Bellamy clicks his tongue, and Octavia relents. “She’ll get used to you,” Bellamy says reassuringly, and Clarke isn’t really sure which one of them he’s talking to.

“So what’s the deal with you two?” she asks, as the falcon starts to preen her feathers.

Bellamy’s grin is wry and humorless. “We were hoping you could figure that out. We were told you’re good at undoing curses.”

Octavia, clearly bored with the direction of conversation, unceremoniously flies out the window, back into the woods. Bellamy watches her go, looking impossibly fond. Clarke wonders what it must be like, being unable to speak with the girl he loves, or hold her the way he wants to.

Clarke’s never been a _romantic_ , but she has a heart. She’s read the stories, and had a few dalliances of her own. More wet kisses and frantic fingers than actual _affection_ , but there might have been that too, if they’d only had more time.

“Can you tell me about the curse?” she asks, and Bellamy shakes his head.

“Every time we try to talk about it, it’s—” his mouth stops suddenly, like it’s filled with words but they refuse to fall out. Finally he sighs, breathing through his nose like a dog. “See?”

Clarke nods. “It’s a speechless clause, to make it harder for someone to break it. I’ve seen it before.” She leans back, her hip against the counter, arm just briefly brushing up against his. His skin is like a furnace, burning through the sleeve of her dress.

“Anya, the witch who lived here before me, she built this cottage,” Clarke says. “She found me when I was little, wandering around the woods, with just a first name and a golden tiara. She took me in and taught me everything I know. The only curse I’ve never been able to undo is my own. I’ll see what I can do, for yours.”

Bellamy grins, more teeth than anything, still every inch a wolf beneath his skin. “I’m assuming you’ll want payment?”

“And here I thought your falcon would just force me to do it at knife-point,” Clarke says, dry, and Bellamy tips back his head with a laugh.

“She would,” he agrees. “But I’m a bit more diplomatic, if you can believe.” He chews a bit on his lower lip, and Clarke is hit with the sudden thought that he’s beautiful.

And then she chases that thought away, because—now just isn’t the time for that. He’s under a curse, along with the girl that he clearly loves, and. It just isn’t a very good idea.

“We don’t have much, in the way of money,” he admits. “But I can work. Housework, chores, fixing things. I’m good with my hands,” he adds, completely serious, and Clarke has to work at covering up her grin.

“That sounds reasonable,” she decides, and they shake on it. “You can both stay here for as long as it takes. The longer I’m around your curse, the easier it will be for me to unwrap it, but I can’t give you a specific timeline. It could be days, weeks or months, depending on how complex the spellwork is.”

Bellamy nods, all business, and Clarke eyes him for a bit longer than she probably should.

It’s just—there’s a lot of bare, freckled skin on display, and his whole torso looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, like some statue of the ancient god of sexual fantasies, or something. It’s a lot to take in.

“First, you’ll need work clothes,” she decides, doing her best to hide the flush in her cheeks. Hopefully he’ll think it’s just the springtime warmth. “You can’t tend to my bees in just a blanket.”

“Ah, yes,” Bellamy says. “We must protect your bees’ virtue.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of, we must protect your penis from being stung,” Clarke says, prim, and Bellamy chokes on nothing.

She takes him to Maya, both because Maya is the best seamstress in the village, and because Maya’s the least likely to make something out of the naked man wearing Clarke’s blanket.

Unfortunately, Maya is also currently in a courtship with Jasper, which means he’s nearly always at her shop, hanging about. So when Clarke shuffles in through the door with Bellamy, Jasper’s the one who sees them both first.

“A single word and I will turn you into a toad,” Clarke threatens, narrowing her eyes.

Jasper hesitates. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” She feels Bellamy settle a heavy hand on her shoulder and when she glances up, finds him glaring out at Jasper, looking definitively more intimidating than Clarke ever could.

Maya interrupts the whole thing by stepping in from the back room, takes in the situation, pecks Jasper on the cheek and tells him to go home.

He leaves, grumbling the whole time, but Clarke knows it’s a lost cause; he’s going to go directly to Monty, and Monty can’t keep anything from Miller, and Miller will let it slip to Harper, and the whole village will know within the hour, she’s sure.

“Things could be worse,” Bellamy muses, letting Maya take his measurements, as Clarke does her very best to not objectify him. “You could have actually turned him into a toad.”

“No I couldn’t have,” she says glumly, picking at the loose thread on her seat cushion. “I _undo_ curses. I can’t _cast_ them.”

There’s a brief moment where he just stares at her, before dissolving completely into laughter. It takes poor Maya nearly fifteen minutes to get him to straighten up again, so she can finish measuring his arms.

She sends them home with three new shirts, and trousers, all plain but well-made. Clarke isn’t sure where Maya got her magic loom from, but it’s in peak condition.

Clarke’s surprised they aren’t stopped half a dozen times throughout the village, but the reason becomes clear once they reach her cottage, and find the small crowd gathered up out front.

Octavia is perched on the mailbox, as the villagers ooh and ahh over her tawny feathers. She seems to enjoy the admiration, but when any of them reach out to touch her, she nips at their fingers, lightning-quick.

Clarke stares at the crowd, glumly.

“Cheer up,” Bellamy says, amused. “Aren’t these people you actually _like_?”

“I like them from a distance,” Clarke says, and glowers when he laughs at her. “I wouldn’t be so happy about this if I were you. They’re going to want to poke and prod you for hours. They’re going to ask a lot of invasive questions, like what it’s like to pee as a wolf.”

Bellamy’s grin vanishes immediately, which isn’t half as satisfying as it ought to be. “Can’t you get rid of them?”

Clarke cracks her knuckles, mostly for show. “I can try.”

The villagers _do_ ask a lot of invasive questions, but it’s fairly easy for Clarke and Bellamy to dodge them all on their way into the cottage, until Clarke finally makes an announcement from the front door.

“If you aren’t here for an actual business call, then I must ask you to leave. I’m not entertaining house guests for the time being.” Only about a third of them leave, which is to be expected. The rest come up with last-minute orders to place, so they can get a good look at the man-wolf, and interrogate Clarke as best they can.

Bellamy, meanwhile, is hiding out back, chopping firewood for lack of anything else to do. Eventually, Clarke finishes her last order and all but shoves her customer through the door, before going outside to collect her new roommate. The sun’s just beginning to set, golden light catching on his curls, slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead. His shirt’s nearly soaked through, as well. It’s a good look for him.

He must catch her staring, because suddenly he’s grinning, teeth sharper than before. “Enjoying the view?”

Clarke makes a face. “Come on, I’ll show you the guest room.”

Bellamy looks surprised, but follows her in. “I didn’t think you had a spare room.”

She shrugs, crossing over to the door that showed up just hours ago. “I didn’t, before. I told you, this is a witch’s cottage. It has whatever I need.”

The spare room is plainer than her own, but nice enough, with a matching set of wooden furniture and a bed big enough to fit two comfortably. There’s a book shelf to the side, and a chess set on the table. Bellamy lets out a low whistle.

“Witches are pretty good architects,” he says, crossing over to study the chess board.

“We’re a very talented bunch,” Clarke agrees.

“I hate to ask you this,” Bellamy says, but his words sound jagged, breathing starting to turn heavy and hard. “But I’m starting to—could you—I need some space.”

Clarke doesn’t understand, until she sees his eyes starting to go yellow, and then she nearly trips over herself, trying to get out. She can hear his bones snapping, through the wood, and a slight whimper that makes her heart ache, before finally everything goes quiet.

Part of her wants to open the door and check on him, and part of her is terrified of what she’ll find if she does.

In the end, her decision is made for her, when Octavia crashes in through the front door, hair tangled and matted, skin covered in dirt, incredibly naked. She cuts her eyes at Clarke from across the room.

“Where is he?”

Clarke points at the spare door, and Octavia nods. “You’re going to help us?”

“Yes. Bellamy’s working the payment off.”

“Fine,” the girl seems to chew on her next words, before spitting them out. “If you hurt him, I’ll kill you.”

“I believe you,” Clarke says, and watches Octavia storm into the guest room without another word.

When she wakes up, she finds Bellamy sleeping out on the floor again. He’s wearing clothes this time, and she’s not sure if she should be thankful for that or not. She pokes him in the cheek, to wake him.

Bellamy blinks up at her and then grins a little blearily. “I’m not used to sleeping in a bed, anymore,” he admits, and she makes them both some tea.

“Today we’re working with the bees,” Clarke tells him, and bites back a grin when he immediately scowls, mouth twisting around a bite of toast.

“I hate bees,” he grumbles.

“You’ll like my bees. My bees are very nice.” She gives him one of her sun hats with the wide brim, and the lace hanging down all around it.

“Shouldn’t we have suits or something?” he asks, clearly trying to pretend he’s not nervous. It’s cute. Clarke almost feels bad for him.

“We don’t need any,” she says, shoving him towards the hives. “I told you, my bees are very nice.”

And they are. Clarke’s been beekeeping since she was young, when Anya first introduced her to it, and her bees are some of the most polite she’s ever known. They buzz around Bellamy, curious, feeling him out. A few land on his arms, to nuzzle his skin, and he laughs a bit breathlessly.

“They like me,” he says, with quiet disbelief. “I mean, I knew they would, I’m extremely likable.”

“You’re an extreme pain in my ass,” Clarke says, and shows him how to collect the honey.

And that’s how their days go for the next few weeks; Clarke wakes up to find Bellamy curled on the carpet, they have breakfast and sometimes they chat, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Clarke has customers throughout the day, while Bellamy clears out her gutters or rethatches her roof, or splits wood or tends to the bees or the garden. Once, he discovers one of her kitchen table legs is shorter than the others, and he spends the whole morning shaving the rest of them down so the table doesn’t rock anymore. Once, he rebinds the leather of Anya’s ancient cookbook, that had previously been flaking and falling apart.

Clarke isn’t always sure where Octavia goes during the day—sometimes she sticks around, hovering through the backyard, or in the trees, or resting on Bellamy’s shoulder. And sometimes she disappears for hours, only to return, naked and wild-looking, in her human form.

Octavia doesn’t seem to mind showing off her feathers, but Bellamy is strict about changing forms behind closed doors. Clarke hasn’t seen him as a wolf since that first night, and she’s not really sure why he feels the need to hide it.

Each day she feels closer to unraveling their curse, but it’s never quite there. It’s like she’s stretching her arm out to reach something, just grazing it with her fingertips, but it’s always beyond her reach.

Jasper shows up sometime in the afternoon, under the pretense of needing wild leeks from her garden, but Clarke knows better.

“So,” he says, trying to play at nonchalant, as Clarke rinses the vegetables in her kitchen basin. “Where’s the girl? You know, the one he’s with?”

“Around,” Clarke says, purposefully vague, and bites back a grin when he huffs at her.

“You could at least give me _something_ ,” he whines, and when she turns back around, he’s leaned his head down on her counter to pout. “What does she look like? When does he turn into a wolf? What kind of curse are they under? Where are they from? Do they know where _you’re_ from?”

“Their names are Octavia and Bellamy,” Clarke says, because she’s a good friend. “They’re staying with me until I’ve broken their curse. He’s only a wolf at night, and she’s a falcon during the day. I don’t know anything else, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. If you want to know more, ask one of them.”

She pushes the bundle of leeks into his hands, and directs him towards the front door. Jasper grins and gives her half a salute before leaving.

“He’s sort of a menace,” Bellamy says, making Clarke jump and whirl around to find him leaning just inside the back door.

“He’s a great guy, once you get to know him,” she defends, and Bellamy grins, only a little sharp. It’s still just the afternoon; they’ve got hours before he becomes a wolf again.

“I’m sure he is,” he agrees. “You wouldn’t like him otherwise.” He crosses over to where she has that day’s harvest from her garden sprawled out over her countertop, and he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, before washing his hands in the sink.

“Come on,” he says, “Help me cook lunch. I know a good recipe.”

Clarke watches as he chops the beets and onions and rutabagas with practiced ease. She helps him find the dishes he needs, the graters and frying pans, the oil and vinegar, the spices he roasts the vegetables in. Clarke burns her mouth three times in her haste to eat it all, and it’s completely worth it. She licks the oils from her fingers when she’s done.

“Where did you learn how to make that?” she asks, sitting back with a sigh, too warm and filled with food to do much of anything. Bellamy sinks back beside her on the settee.

“My mother. When O and I were growing up, she used to just throw everything from the garden into a pot with whatever spices she had on hand. She called it Kitchen Sink Stew, because _it has everything but the kitchen sink in it_.”

Clarke grins and tries to imagine it. A small, boyish version of the man beside her now, all messy hair and freckles and a grin that’s not so sharp. “That sounds nice.” She can feel herself sinking down into the cushion, but she doesn’t care enough to stop. Bellamy tugs her up and over, so she’s leaning against him, for support. She sighs against his shoulder.

“It was,” he agrees, and she feels his fingers combing through her hair, soothing her to sleep. She dozes off against him, and wakes when he shifts her over.

The shadows of the room have stretched out while she was asleep; it must be evening, now. Bellamy grins ruefully when he sees she’s awake. “I have to go change,” he says, and she knows he doesn’t mean outfits.

Octavia arrives like a storm, like she always does, but freezes mid-step when she smells the food. She gives the pot on the stove a long look, and then turns to Clarke. “He made this?”

Clarke nods, and she can’t decipher the girl’s expression, but for once Octavia doesn’t look angry enough to kill.

Clarke doesn’t realize she’s in trouble until Jasper and Monty invite them all to that week’s ball.

The balls aren’t a common event, but they’re not exactly rare. If Monty and Jasper had their way, they’d throw one every weekend, but balls are actually fairly complicated to plan, and they have to worry about venues and catering, and it’s generally too much of a hassle to work out.

But Jasper has finally managed to work up the nerve to ask Maya to marry him, and she said yes of course, so the whole village is coming together to celebrate.

“We haven’t seen you in forever,” Jasper says, clearly trying to guilt her into saying yes, because he knows that Clarke’s a sucker.

She and Bellamy are at the market, selling what she won’t use from her garden, along with about ten jars of honey, because Bellamy got a little carried away with the harvesting. Octavia’s somewhere around, probably pestering the neighborhood kids, tying their hair together with her beak.

Or she might be hanging around Lincoln. She seems to like the woodworker, more than she likes anyone except Bellamy. Certainly more than she likes Clarke, which Clarke is trying not to feel too bad about.

It’s just— _she’s_ the one who’s trying to solve their stupid curse, so she thinks she deserves a little favoritism. That’s all.

When she tried to ask Lincoln about it, he’d just shrugged unhelpfully. “She’s different than everyone sees her,” he said, which was only slightly less unhelpful. “She’s strong, but she can be soft, too. She’s just afraid to be.”

Clarke doesn’t really get it—Octavia is still all razor-sharp teeth and stormy eyes to her. They’ve hardly said two words to each other over the course of a month, meanwhile Bellamy spends his days telling Clarke stories—sometimes about his childhood, as much as he can before the curse stops him, and sometimes stories that aren’t his. He’s taught her half the sky’s constellations, by now, each more complicated and incest-filled than the last.

But—she likes his stupid stories. She likes the way he tells them; he’ll be busying his hands with something, either rinsing herbs or sorting seeds or darning a pair of socks, and he’ll get so distracted with his own words, waving his hands and the kitchen knife or the seed packets or the needle, until he’s completely forgotten about the task. And the longer he goes on about whichever idiotic demigod it is, or narcissistic goddess, the more worked up he gets. His hair will fall in his face and he won’t notice, his eyes will flash, and he’ll glance over at her every few seconds, to check that she’s still paying attention. Clarke can never bring herself to look away.

But she doesn’t realize she’s halfway to in love with him, until the ball.

“Fine, fine! I’ll come to your stupid ball,” she says, partly to shut Jasper and Monty up, but mostly because she is, it must be said, a sucker.

“Bellamy and Octavia should come too,” Monty says, because he’s the more tactful one, and over the past month, the whole village has taken a liking to Clarke’s guests. Or at least, they’ve all taken a liking to Bellamy, and are sort of in awe of Octavia.

“I’ll see what I can do about Octavia,” Clarke sighs. She’ll have to get Lincoln to ask her; she knows the girl won’t bother coming, otherwise. “But Bellamy will be a wolf by then, and he doesn’t like people to see him as a wolf.”

“Sense when?” Monty asks, and Clarke blinks at him.

“Since—I don’t know. Always?” She certainly hadn’t seen him as a wolf, not since that first night, and she’s fairly sure he hadn’t had much say in that.

Jasper and Monty share a look she can’t decipher, so Clarke scowls, to make them talk.

Monty cracks first, like she knew he would. Monty has a soft spot for her. “He usually walks through the village at night,” he admits. “We can all see him, through our windows. I always thought it was because he can’t sleep.”

Clarke worries at her bottom lip, a nervous habit that she’d almost kicked. “He does usually seem tired,” she admits, because it’s true, she’s noticed. She just assumed it was because wolves are nocturnal, or something. Not because he took midnight strolls through the town. He doesn’t even like people, so she’s not sure why he wouldn’t wander around the woods instead, where no one would see him.

But most of all, she doesn’t know why he so clearly doesn’t want _her_ to see him. She thought he was just self-conscious of his wolf form, not that it had anything to do with her, specifically. She’s a little bit hurt. Does he think she’d judge him for it? Does he think she’d be scared?

“I’ll see what I can do,” she repeats, and manages to remember to stop by Lincoln’s, to speak with him about Octavia—only to find that the falcon’s already there, in his woodshop, perched up on a stool that looks handmade just for her. Clarke’s beyond trying to understand their friendship, so she just passes along the invitation, and heads home.

Bellamy left early with their groceries, because he wanted to get the frozen cream into the ice box, and she finds him stocking her pantry, when she walks in.

“Why don’t you ever let me see you as a wolf?” she asks, because there’s no point in beating around the bush with it. Bellamy freezes, just for a moment, before continuing on like he didn’t hear. But she isn’t fooled; even with his back to her, she can see his ears turning red at the tips.

“Why do you want to?” he asks, sounding gruffer than usual, and Clarke makes a face he can’t see.

“I don’t _want_ to, I just—do you not trust me? Is that it?”

Finally, Bellamy stops completely and turns to face her, looking more surprised than anything else. He’s wearing one of her aprons, the one with the frills around the edges, in Christmas colors. “Of course I trust you,” he says, like it should be obvious.

“Then why won’t you let me see you?” she presses, crossing over until they’re standing side by side. She wants to take his hand, feels like this is a sort of hand-holding conversation, but that would probably be a bit forward. There are certain _connotations_ and—honestly, she’s so fucked. “I wouldn’t judge you,” she adds, and he grins, bright and open.

“I know you wouldn’t judge me,” he says. “Jesus, is _that_ what this is about? You think I’m embarrassed?”

“Well if that’s not it, why?”

Bellamy sighs and turns back to finish his chore. “I’m not—I just thought it would, I don’t know. Make you uncomfortable.”

“Why would it make me uncomfortable?” she hands him the next can of peaches, which he takes without looking down, dry tips of his fingers brushing her skin, burning where he touches her.

“Most people don’t like rooming with a wolf, Clarke,” he says, dry, and Clarke snorts a little without really meaning to.

“ _Seriously_? Bellamy how many times do I have to remind you, I’m a witch? I met a man with snakes for fingers, once. I’ve seen a deer sprout two heads. One time, there was—”

“Okay, okay, _Jesus_ ,” Bellamy laughs. “I’m sorry I forgot you have a history with fucked up creatures. What’s one more, right?”

He says it like a joke, but it falls flat, and this time Clarke can’t stop herself from reaching for his arm, stroking her thumb over his vein, feeling the blood rush around inside him. He looks down at her, and catches her eye, and she doesn’t let him look away.

“You’re not fucked up,” she says, firm, insistent, and even when he immediately scoffs it sounds a bit off, somehow. Like he might just believe her. “You’re _not_ ,” she repeats, squeezing. “You’re a good man, Bellamy.”

As soon as she says it, she feels a jolt run up through her fingers, straight from his skin, like he’s electrocuted her. They jump back from each other, startled, and Bellamy shakes his arm, which is beginning to smoke. Clarke looks down at her hand, fingers just barely charred at the tips.

“What the hell was that?” Bellamy snarls, going for her wrist to get a better look, before snatching his hand back, like he’s afraid to touch her. Like he’s afraid he might hurt her worse.

“The curse,” Clarke says dumbly. Different spells always react to her differently; it’s to be expected. It depends on the ingredients that go into them, and who makes them and what recipe they follow. But she’s never had one react quite like _that_.

Now that she’s looking, she can see where she’s unwrapped it, just a little bit along the edge. When she looks at Bellamy now, he looks just a little less angular, a little less sharp. More like the man he might have been, before someone came along and stuffed him into the body of a wolf for the night.

She still can’t read it completely, of course. Spells this strong never go very easily. But, it’s a start at least, and Bellamy finally reaches out for her wrist, tugging her hand up for his inspection.

He studies the marks on her fingers without a word and, without a word, brings the tips to his mouth. There’s a barely-there pressure from his lips—a peck, the kind a parent might do for their child, if they’re injured. Clarke holds her breath and when he pulls back, she sees his cheeks are going pink.

“Better?” His voice is a little hoarser than normal, eyes gleaming yellow in the evening light, and Clarke bites back a shiver.

“It doesn’t hurt.” She wets her lips, and pointedly does _not_ watch to see if his eyes track the movement. “There’s a ball tonight, in the village. Octavia and Lincoln are going. You’re invited too.”

Bellamy gives a wry smile. “Somehow I don’t think they want a wolf at the party, Clarke.”

“No, they do,” she says, maybe just a bit more fiercely than is absolutely necessary, but—she needs him to know that he’s well-liked. That he’s wanted. “They want you to come anyway.”

Bellamy blinks at her, and this close, she can see his freckles stand out in the shadows, like little pinpricks of stars beneath his skin. “Do _you_ want me to come?”

“Yes,” Clarke says, and he nods, firm, like he’s still convincing himself. “I should probably, um,” she has to clear her throat once, because he’s just so _close_ , and warm, and she can still nearly feel his lips on the tips of her fingers. “I should get dressed,” she finishes, and Bellamy eyes her up and down, which only makes things _worse._

She can’t believe she didn’t notice until now, how much she likes him. And not just as a good houseguest, who washes all her dishes even if she doesn’t ask.

“You look fine,” he says, and his tone is perfectly mild, but the heat in his eyes give him away. Or maybe it’s just getting late, and he’s getting closer to shifting.

Either way, it makes Clarke flush. She’s still wearing the dirt-stained smock that she gardens in; it’s certainly not _ball_ attire.

“Well, maybe I want to look more than fine,” Clarke sniffs, and he’s grinning when she turns away to slip into her bedroom.

It’s silly, she knows, because—well, there’s the curse for one thing. He’s technically still a client, and getting involved with a client just seems like bad news. And then there’s Octavia. Clarke isn’t sure what his relationship with the falcon girl is, because every time he tries to explain, the curse takes his words away, but it’s clearly a loving one. He lights up whenever the bird is around and, aside from Lincoln now, Bellamy’s the only person Octavia seems to enjoy, constantly rubbing her feathered head against his cheek, or preening through his messy hair, playing with him.

It’s not exactly romantic, but then again, it wouldn’t be. She’s a _bird_ most of the time. And what if Jasper was right, and they really are star-crossed lovers, cursed to never be able to hold each other as humans again? Clarke has no interest in being the middle woman again. It broke her heart the last time, and she’d barely even _liked_ Finn, not like Raven did, and Raven still came out of it stronger than Clarke.

“Who needs an astronomer, anyway?” Raven had said, once Finn skipped town on the both of them. “Good for nothing science that puts no bread on the table. Fancy Latin names and nothing else. And not too good in the sack, either.” Looking back on it, they’d probably— _definitely_ —drunk too much, because Miller felt bad for them and gave them free drinks all night, and because Raven wanted to prove the strength of her liver.

They woke up the next morning, tucked into Raven’s bed in the loft above her shop, and she’d given Clarke a dry, hungover kiss.

“What was that for?” Clarke asked, pulling back. She was still bleary-eyed and squinty, and her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Raven grinned.

“A thank you,” she said, “For helping me realize that my fiancé is a cad. And also because you’re pretty.” She gave an exaggerated wink, and then vomited out through her window.

After that, Clarke hadn’t given much thought to romance. She hadn’t let herself. Niylah had done her best, gotten the closest, but Clarke still couldn’t give her what she deserved, and so she left. But at least that time, Clarke was the one doing the leaving.

It’s been months now since then, nearly a year, and the feeling in her chest has caught her completely off-guard, something which she tries to never be.

Clarke searches through her wardrobe for her prettiest dress. She doesn’t have many opportunities to make herself pretty; she might as well take advantage of the night.

When she steps back outside, she finds Bellamy still waiting, poking at the books on her shelf, even though she knows he must have read through them all by now. He turns to look at her when she walks in, and Clarke’s gratified to see his eyes go wide as he studies her. She’s even done her hair, coiling it up on her head with a strand of wisteria plucked from the vase on her window, and Bellamy’s eyes rest on the bare skin of her shoulders.

“What do you think?” she asks, and he smiles, more fond than anything, and not even a little bit sharp.

“Much more than fine,” he says, and clears his throat a little. Clarke finally notices the purple shadows stretching across the floor. The sun has begun to set. “You might want to turn around for this part,” Bellamy warns, ears red and clearly embarrassed even though he’s trying to hide it.

Part of her is curious and wants to watch the change happen, but most of her is still a little bit afraid. What if it’s horrifyingly painful for him? What if his bones snap and reform under his skin?

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t watch,” Bellamy says, sounding a bit pained, and that seals it. Clarke spins on her heel and faces the far wall, as he starts to unbutton his shirt.

In the end, it goes by quicker than she’s expecting, and there’s no sound to it. One moment, there’s a man in her living room, and the next there’s a wolf. He’s left his clothing folded neatly on the arm of her settee, and sits back on his brown haunches, staring up at her.

“Well, you’re not intimidating at all,” she says, and he growls, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “In fact, you look downright cuddly.”

Bellamy gives a fierce bark, clearly insulted, and Clarke laughs. She bends down to scratch his ears, and he nips at her fingers, just the graze of teeth against her skin. He pads along by her side on their way through the forest, nails clicking on the cobblestone streets. She keeps a hand soft on his head the whole way, and each time she thinks maybe she should let go, and tries to pull away, he butts up against her thigh until she curls her fingers back through his fur. She likes the feel of it.

The ball is in full swing by the time they arrive at the main hall, and Clarke sees Octavia looking pretty in a shimmery dark material, dancing with Lincoln near the back. Clarke glances down to see how Bellamy reacts to seeing his—well, his person, dancing with another man. She’s been a little nervous about Lincoln’s friendship with Octavia for weeks, now.

She’s been preparing herself, to hate Octavia, to ache for the broken heart of her friend, to ache for Bellamy. It’s proved a very nice distraction from her own feelings, as of late.

But Bellamy just huffs a little through his snout and shakes his head, looking more irritated than outraged or hurt, like she’d expect. Clarke follows when he pads over towards the seating area, and sits down beside her, on the floor.

“Excuse me.”

Clarke turns to see one of the village children, a little girl named Charlotte, looking shyly at Bellamy, where he’s lying on the floor.

“Can I pet your wolf?” she asks, and it takes Clarke a moment to realize she’s asking _her_ for permission. She glances down at Bellamy, who just presses the cold tip of his nose to the skin of her knee, where her skirt’s ridden up a few inches.

“As long as he’s okay with it,” Clarke tells her, and Charlotte crouches down, slow and cautious, stretching her hand out for Bellamy to sniff. He does, and licks it, nudging her palm with his furry head, until Charlotte laughs and starts to pet the soft parts of his ears.

It goes on like that for the rest of the night—Bellamy is very popular. Mostly his fans are young children, but a few adults take a liking to him too. He takes it in stride, and even seems relatively smug about all the attention. Clarke hopes it doesn’t go to his head.

Clarke spends most of her time by his side, nursing a cider and chatting with the villagers who happen by. She’s never been the best at dancing, has always preferred to watch, but then suddenly it’s Octavia standing before her, looking fierce and beautiful even in her dress, with little white flowers braided through her hair.

She gives Clarke a crooked grin, and Bellamy swipes at her leg with his paw. Octavia pretends not to notice. “I’ll take this next dance,” she tells Clarke, leaving no room for argument, and Clarke follows her out to the floor.

It’s a fairly simple dance, and Octavia takes the lead like she was born to it, hands firm around Clarke’s waist, as freezing to the touch as Bellamy’s skin is scorching. For a moment, they simply move in silence, but then she says “He really likes you.”

There’s only one _he_ she could be referencing, so Clarke doesn’t bother feigning indifference. And anyway, she’s fairly sure her own blush is giving her away. “I really like him too.”

Octavia nods like she’d expected as much, and then gave Clarke a sharp glare. “He and I—we only had each other, our whole lives.” It seems like a heavy sort of admittance, and Clarke swallows, trying to imagine that kind of life. Having someone she could love and trust unconditionally. “He’s the most important thing in my world, do you understand? If you break his heart, I will end you.”

Clarke would feel intimidated, if she wasn’t already busy feeling confused. It seems like the sort of threat a family member would give, either a parent or sibling. Or sister.

Clarke feels her eyes widen as everything else slots into place.

“You’re siblings,” she says, feeling incredibly stupid, and Octavia gives her a look that makes it clear she agrees.

“ _That’s_ why you haven’t fucked him, yet?” Octavia asks, dry, and Clarke trips on her skirts, stomping on her feet by mistake.

“That’s not the _only_ reason,” Clarke grumbles. “It’s—he’s stuck with me either way, for as long as he wants, but. I’d rather wait until the curse is broken. Just to make things a little less complicated.”

Octavia nods, professional. “And how close are we to that happening?” It’s the first she’s actually acknowledged the curse, and Clarke’s role in undoing it, and it feels like a very large step towards— _something_. Friendship, perhaps. Certainly acquaintanceship, at the very least, which is better than the slightly vitriolic dynamic they’d had before.

“Close,” Clarke decides, because now that she’s discovered this particular puzzle piece, it seems that the rest are starting to all come together. She can feel the magic of it running around in excitement, set off by the change in the air. When she stares at Octavia, she can see the shadow of the girl she was before, starting to solidify. She’s like an eggshell, beginning to crack.

“I’ll let you know if there are any developments,” Clarke tells her once the song ends, although she’s sure that if anything about the curse were to change, Octavia would be one of the first to know.

She goes over to where Bellamy is on his back, letting some of the younger kids rub at his belly. She kneels down with a smile, and he rolls over to nose at her hand.

“I’m heading home,” she tells him. “You can stay if you’d like.”

But he just shakes his head and stands, tail still wagging mildly. Clarke shares a grin with the children. “Thanks for keeping him company.”

“No problem,” says Viola, the baker’s daughter. “We love him.”

It’s the sort of thing children say about animals, even ones they’ve just met, but it still fills Clarke with an overwhelming sort of fondness, to know that she isn’t the only one who appreciates him. And when Bellamy leans over to give Viola’s hand one last lick, she knows he’s probably thinking the same.

They reach her cottage just as the sky starts to go lavender around the edges, a few hours before dawn. Bellamy’s starting to sag, exhausted from so much company, and the walk home, and Clarke can barely keep her eyes open.

He goes to immediately curl up on the carpet, in front of the unlit fireplace, but Clarke runs her hand through the fur of his flank, feels the bump of his scar, where he’d been shot through, that first night.

“You should sleep in a bed,” she tells him. “You aren’t really a wolf. You’ll have the back of an old man, if you keep sleeping like this.”

Bellamy blinks up at her lazily, but follows her into her bedroom, and jumps up onto her mattress without much more prompting from her. He curls up at the end, hiding his face under his paws while she undresses, which is sweet but fairly unnecessary. Clarke plans to stop being stupid with him in the morning, now that she’s nearly got the curse figured out.

When she looks at him from the corner of her eye, she sees the man. The curse is starting to peel up from the edges. It won’t be long, now.

Clarke pulls on her nightgown and slips into bed, stretching so her toes find his fur, and she can feel his warm breathing.

She wakes to the feeling of strong arms around her and warm skin pressed all along her back. She can feel his breaths hitting the side of her neck, like he’s buried his face in her hair, and Clarke just lies there for a moment, drinking in the feeling. She could get used to this.

And then she feels the flash of his teeth against her neck instead, and she could get used to that too.

“Morning,” he says, voice hoarse from sleep, and Clarke shivers back against him until he groans.

It doesn’t take her long to notice he’s naked. She can feel the hard press of him against her thigh, between her nightgown, and Clarke’s moving before she can think of any reason why she should stop.

When they kiss it isn’t new and exciting, like with Finn, or rushed and electric, like with Niylah. It’s slow, and wet, with the slide of his tongue moving against hers, and his groan rumbling down through her spine. It feels like an epilogue kiss. Like every single moment has led up to this one, with Clarke’s toes curling into the bedsheets and Bellamy’s hand slipping under her gown.

But then she remembers that reason, and she pulls away, only whining a little when his mouth immediately migrates to her jaw, sucking bruises into the skin there.

“I think I’ve figured out the curse,” Clarke says, gasps really because Bellamy’s biting into the flesh of her neck and she’s never felt so desperate—but it’s enough to stop him, and make him pull back.

His eyes study her face for answers. “What? How?”

“Octavia’s your sister,” Clarke says, struggling to even _think_ , let alone _form words_ , right now. “You two always looked out for each other. You never trusted anyone else, or thought you belonged. The curse wasn’t meant to keep you apart from _each other_ , it was supposed to keep you from everyone else.”

Bellamy’s hand slides further up her leg, but not in any way that feels overtly sensuous. More—loving. He curls his fingers around her hip, like he’s reminding himself she’s real.

“No one ever understood,” he admits. “No one ever wanted us.”

“It wasn’t a curse,” Clarke says, moving to frame his face in her hands, so he can’t look away. He doesn’t even blink. “It was a protection spell. For as long as you both thought you needed it.”

Bellamy frowns. “But—how? We’ve wanted it gone for ages, now.”

Clarke shifts, rolling them over so she hovers over him. He bundles her hair up away from her face, and cradles the back of her head. “Spells are tricky,” she muses. “It might have had a clause, so you’d have to do something specific.” She traces the freckles on his shoulder, and bends down to press her mouth against the skin. “Like realizing someone else wants you.”

She feels his throat work as he swallows. “Someone else wants us?”

“Don’t be dense,” Clarke huffs, sitting up, and she watches his eyes darken at the swing of her breasts when she moves. “I want you. The whole village wants you. You’re very popular here.”

Bellamy eyes her for a moment, before reaching up to stroke his thumb against her nipple, through the fabric, and Clarke’s hips move involuntarily, searching him out. “We’re a package deal,” he warns, and Clarke can’t help snorting.

“Yeah, I kind of got that. Everyone likes Octavia too, or _will_ , once they actually get to know her. Lincoln _really_ likes her,” she adds, and grins when Bellamy’s face darkens.

“Don’t remind me,” he growls, and then softens underneath her hands. “You really,” his jaw works as he weighs out his words. “You want us to stay?”

Clarke leans down to kiss him, sweet and chaste. “You have a home here,” she says, and wills him to believe it. “For as long as you want.”

He keeps her gaze for a moment before surging up, and _this_ kiss is rushed, and desperate, and everything she’s been waiting for. “I’ve wanted you since that first day,” he growls, trailing sloppy kisses down her skin, ripping at the neckline of her nightgown until it slips off her shoulders and pools against her stomach. “Since that first _morning_.” He runs his tongue over her breast and Clarke whimpers.

“Me too,” she admits, and lets him move her hips until he’s inside her, muffling her noises with his mouth.

It’s sloppy, and harried, with hands roaming everywhere like neither of them know where they want to touch, next. Eventually, Bellamy settles with one hand on her hip and one in her hair, tugging her head back and Clarke didn’t even know she _liked_ that, until she feels his teeth at her ear.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bellamy pants, “I want to put my mouth all over you,” and Clarke shudders as she comes.

“Please do,” she says, shaky, and the next moment she’s on her back with his tongue sliding into her until she screams. He bites a purple bloom into her thigh once he’s finished, marking his territory, and Clarke can’t even feel offended about it, once she sees the angry red tracks she’s left down his back.

Apparently they’re both a bit wolfish, and when she says as much, he grins, every inch the predator he was last night.

“How did you figure it out?” he asks, nuzzling against her hair, and Clarke reaches up to pet him, which he still seems to like. She sort of hopes he doesn’t grow out of this particular habit.

“Octavia,” she says, “And a few other clues. The one thing I can’t explain is, who would put that kind of spell on you two?”

There’s a moment of silence which feels more like hesitation than anything else, and then Bellamy lets out a warm sigh. “Our mom, probably. She knew a fair bit of magic, just things she picked up along her travels. And she was paranoid, always telling us we couldn’t trust anyone but each other, and—honestly, it’s the sort of thing she would do, because she thought it would help us.”

Clarke scratches her nails against his scalp until he hums. “She was looking out for you.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “She was just sort of shitty at it.”

“I’m sorry.” She lets him roll her over until they’re nose-to-nose, and then he smiles, bright and weightless.

“Don’t be,” he says, tangling their legs together. “It helped me find you.”

They doze in and out throughout the morning, not having slept much through the night, and when Clarke next comes to, Bellamy has a hand drifting up and down her side so light it nearly tickles, and she rolls over with a hum.

She sees the pink skin of his scar pucker in the sunlight, and traces it with a finger while he watches lazily. “You never told me where this came from.”

“A hunter.” Bellamy smiles when she tenses, and he pulls her in close. “I’m fine—he was after O, actually. I barely managed to get in front of her and take the hit.”

“You’re a good brother,” Clarke says, and he kisses her. “And a good houseguest,” she adds, once he’s pulled back.

Bellamy snorts. “Are you forgetting that my sister forced you to let us keep you, under threat of beheading?”

Clarke moves to run a hand down the hard lines of his stomach. This, lying here with him, everything about the morning, still feels a bit surreal. There’s so much about him she wants to learn, so many places she wants to touch. She props her chin up on his chest with a grin. “Are _you_ forgetting that I’m a witch? I could have had both of you outside in a second, if I really wanted.”

The look that he gives her is unreadable. “So why didn’t you?”

She shrugs a shoulder, which is hard to do while lying down. “I wanted to help you,” she says, because it’s the simplest explanation. There were other reasons too of course, nothing is ever so one-dimensional, but. Mostly, she’d just seen an animal that was dying and needed her help, and she’d wanted to give it.

“You have,” he says, soft. “More than you know.”

Clarke knows they should probably get out of bed and get dressed soon. If nothing else, they should definitely eat. She might have clients stop by later. But—it’s very difficult to do any of that, when the alternative is so nice.

“How will we know if the curse is broken?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke frowns, sweeping her gaze over him. There are no more layers that she can say, none of the distinctive signs that spells carry with them. He just looks like a naked man in her bed, no claws or fur hidden under his freckled skin. He’s been speaking freely about the curse as well, which is probably a good sign.

“We probably won’t know for sure until nightfall,” she admits. “If you don’t change, it’s broken. And if you do—we’ll deal with that.”

Bellamy snorts. “Good plan.”

“I’m very professional,” Clarke agrees, and stretches as she stands. “Come on. I think I’ve still got some good toast for breakfast.”

As it turns out, they don’t have to wait long at all.

They’re both in the kitchen, half-dressed as they put breakfast together—it’s slow-going because they keep stopping to kiss up against the counter—when Octavia storms in through the front door.

She’s wearing her dress from last night, and a man’s jacket that makes Bellamy frown, but then she’s launching herself at her brother with a victory cry, and it’s hard to feel anything but joy.

Bellamy wraps his arms around his sister, probably for the first time in _years_ , and beams at Clarke from over her shoulder. “It worked,” he says, and Clarke lets out a startled laugh when Octavia rushes over to crush her in a hug, too.

“It _worked_ ,” Octavia whispers into Clarke’s hair, pulling back with the warmest expression Clarke’s ever seen on her. “Thank you.”

Clarke shrugs a little, unsure what to do with the girl's sudden affection. Apparently all Octavia had needed to actually  _like_ her, was to be her normal self. "Your brother technically paid me for it."

Bellamy gives a smile that makes her skin flush. "And I enjoyed every second of it."

Octavia finally takes in Clarke’s apparel—one of Bellamy’s work shirts, haphazardly buttoned, and nothing else—and smirks. “Do I even want to know _how_ you broke the curse?”

“It was actually very appropriate,” Clarke sniffs, and Octavia tips back her head to laugh, just like her brother.

“I’m sure,” she says, even though she very clearly _isn’t_ , and Clarke nearly argues, but there isn’t really a point. “Everyone else already knows, by the way,” she adds, and Bellamy scoffs, sliding her a slice of toast with honey.

“Yeah, I’m guessing it was hard to miss you running and screaming down the street.”

Octavia makes a face at him around her breakfast, and Clarke levels her with a dry look.

“You know what this means, don’t you? Another ball,” she sighs, but Octavia looks delighted, immediately moving towards the guest room, where the enchanted wardrobe stocks her clothes.

Bellamy moves to Clarke’s side, and she curls her arms around his stomach. He’s still hot enough to burn, just a little, a pleasant sting, and she’s starting to think that has nothing to do with the curse at all. It’s just Bellamy.

“I’m guessing we’re going to the party too?” he asks, a little teasing, but still just a bit unsure. Like he could possibly still _not know_.

But that’s fine. He isn’t going anywhere, and Clarke can spend the foreseeable future convincing him that he belongs.

“Of course you are,” she says, tipping her head up to look at him. “You’re one of us, now.”

Bellamy leans down to press a kiss to her hair. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
